


A Hard Day's Night

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:52:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7567921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: 'Your choice of Beatle visits his girlfriend at her job. 1963/1964'. It's not easy being a Beatle WAG, at least, not keeping it secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hard Day's Night

“Have a good day…!”

You smile, and the old woman – Mrs. Marriot, a regular, always gets a tea with too much milk and no sugar – gives you a sour glare. You wonder for a moment how she got here in the deluge – surely if witches like her step outside into the rain, they’ll _melt_ – and then sigh.

“(Y/N)! Clean up the tables, love!” calls your boss, who is currently on the rotary phone at the end of the counter. You feel a little pang of irritation – you realise that you are lower than her in the pecking order, but still – why is it just you and her in? Surely the new girl, Annie, should be working a few more shifts… The door goes, the bell jangling. “And serve them customers!”

You roll your eyes and look sideways – it’s just one, actually, a man in a grey coat with a porkpie hat and a grey moustache. You spot upon a clean table – perfect. You can seat him, get his order, and then clean up. Maybe your boss will have gotten off the phone by then…

“Hello, sir,” you say, politely, and they raise their head. Your eyes widen as you look deep into blue eyes, and then they smirk.

“‘ullo, love.”

“ _Ringo_?” you hiss, and your boyfriend reaches up and peels the moustache off.

“D’you like it?” he asks, proudly. “Eppy says it’s a way to get past the fans, like…”

“ _What’re you doing here?!_ ” you ask as quietly as you can, which at the moment is not _very_ quietly. Mrs. Marriot is staring. _This is not good_.

You gesture at the table, and he sits down, smiling up at you. You want to smile back, but this is not good at all. You’re at work – even if where you work is a Merseyside diner. This is your… independence, damn it.

“Ringo,” you say, quietly, wondering if calling him ‘Richard’ is a bit harsh, “I’m at work.” He looks at you, blue eyes still wide, as he puts his hat down, and you sigh. “I thought you were recording…”

“Nah, we’ve done a few of my parts and Johnny and Paulie are doing a bit of writin’ so I figured I wouldn’ be missed for a day or so, like,” he says earnestly, and then smiles again; you can’t help but feel your heart melt. He’s like sunshine, you think, and look outside. Sunshine on a wet pavement. “I just wanted to see how work was goin’. I mean… lads pop in to see their birds all the time.”

“Yes, but most lads aren’t in The Beatles,” you say quietly, and there’s a screech from over your shoulder. At least, you think it’s a screech. It actually has some words in it.

“ _Splendid_ to see one of Liverpool’s _own_ stars in our little _diner_.” Great. It’s your boss. She got off the phone. “Mr. Starr…!” Ringo looks a little intimidated. You step back, and decide to watch this unfold. “Call me Anita, I hope our little (Y/N)’s not been botherin’ you…”

“Well, no, actually…” Ringo starts, bemused, and your boss steps between the two of you. You can’t help but smirk, and his eyes widen further.

“What can I get you, sir?” she purrs, and he gestures at you.

“Actually, I just popped in to see (Y/N), like…” he begins, and you freeze. You haven’t told your boss you’re dating a Beatle. You’re not that bloody stupid. You don’t want either of the two things that are inevitable to come with it – idolatrising nepotism, or cold discrimination. Your boss looks at you, eyes wide, and then turns back, cheeks bunched once again in a smile. You remember she has a poster of John in the back office. This is about to take an interesting turn.

“So… you two know each other?” she asks, and you close your eyes.

“Well, yeah… she’s me girlfriend,” Ringo says, nonplussed, and your boss suddenly has your arm in a tight grip.

“Well… (Y/N) never said.” The ice in her voice tells you that you will be taking the ‘cold discrimination’ route today. “What would you like to order? I’ll see to it _personally_.” Ringo rattles off a few things – you check mentally as he speaks to make sure nothing will set off his allergies – and as your boss turns, she breathes in your ear, “I want to speak to you afterwards.” And then she’s gone, and you sink into the chair opposite Ringo. Suddenly, retaining your job feels somewhat unimportant.

“You never mentioned me?” Ringo asks quietly, and you see in his eyes that he almost seems _sad_ – those eyes have a droop to them more characteristic of Paul, and you take his hand gently. “…why? Love?” It dawns – he thinks you’re somehow _ashamed_ of him. God, nothing could be further than the truth, and you tell him so.

“…I just wanted… something on my own terms,” you say quietly, and more than a little sadly, and he tilts his head. “Although that’s out of the window now…” You sigh, and he strokes your hair.

“Oh, love, I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and you look sideways at your boss. She’s on the phone – you know exactly what she’s doing. Everybody’s about to connect Ringo to here, and… by the looks of it, Ringo to _you_. You sigh, and he looks over. He doesn’t realise. He wouldn’t. God bless him, he’s not got a duplicitous bone in his body – his biggest fault is expecting the same of others.

“You’ll have to leave,” you say gloomily, and he puts your hand between his. “She’s calling someone. Maybe the press…”

“Come with me. Come on, love. You could have your choice of waitressin’ jobs,” he says earnestly. From anybody else, that would be a sly snark – from him, that’s… sincerity. Wanting you to have what you want. You don’t want _this_ , as per se. You just wanted something that’s yours… and then you look into Ringo’s eyes, and realise that maybe you’re about to have to make a choice on that. “Come with me.”

You think for a moment, and then stand up. You guess Annie’s about to get a few more shifts – you unfasten your pinnie and place it over the back of the chair, and then take Ringo’s proffered arm even as you hear your boss say something loudly about ‘ _that drummer one_ ’. Mrs. Marriot is still staring – you wave as you walk out of the door, bell jangling, and lean your head against Ringo. You’ll take the sunshine on the pavement, and one day, maybe you’ll find a job that can be your own.


End file.
